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“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”
Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?
My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.
Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.
The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.
She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classicanddaring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”
When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.
But now I wonder if I’m a bit...boring. Unsophisticated.
“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.
“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”
The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.
“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly...” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.
“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”
The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—itisthe perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is Iama girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.
I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’malwaysmore invested than the other person.
When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have myShe’s All Thatmoment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.
I’m not sure I want to be, either.
“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”
I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who Ireallyam. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us...no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Owen
BYTHETHIRDDAYof living at 21 Love Street, we’ve met a number of our neighbours in passing. Hannah ignored my suggestion to let them come to us, and I have to admit she’s playing the role of social butterfly well.
We’ve met a communications manager and her investment banker fiancé from level one. A quiet schoolteacher named Ava and her friend Emery, who live in the apartments next to Rowan and Dominic on level five. I’m thinking they could be a good source of information on the brothers’ activities. And Matt the chef lives on level three. We haven’t seen anyone on level six—I suspect the other penthouse might be owned by someone who travels a lot. There are also two young families on the first floor, and an older woman on level three who seems to keep to herself but gave a friendly wave in the mailroom as I pretended to inspect our mailbox.
Nothing suspicious yet. Based on what we have, I feel Dom, Rowan and Matt are worth looking into further. Which is why Hannah and I are waiting outside L’Arte Galleria in a line to have our tickets checked by a beefy guy in a black suit.
“This place is fancy,” Hannah whispers. She’s hanging on to my arm and has a black trench coat covering her new dress. That dress has been on my mindallday. “I bet they have Swarovski-encrusted toilets.”
I snort and make a poor attempt of covering it with a cough. We step forward in the line and she’s careful to keep her balance on a pair of pencil-thin stilettos that I bought to go with her dress. They have a mirror-like silver finish and they’re doing amazing things for her legs. Hannah had argued that they were impractical and that she wouldn’t be able to chase after anyone in them—but tonight we’re gathering information. No running required.
“Tickets?” The beefy guy has a nose that looks like it’s been on the losing side of a few fistfights and he’s built like a brick wall. Is that OTT for a gallery? I’m not sure.
Hannah hands our invite over and the beefcake scans a small barcode on the back of it. “Mr. and Mrs. Essex, welcome.”
